Windmill Wings
by Ella Roberta Reamy
Summary: How Satine came to be at the Moulin Rouge. ONESHOT.


Windmill Wings

A **Moulin Rouge **Fan Fiction

By Ella Roberta Reamy

© 2003

There was once a dancer at the Moulin Rouge who went by the name of Belladonna.  She was of little notoriety, and few remember her.  She was a dancer in the earlier days of the Moulin Rouge.  The days when Jane Avril sang her heart out for the crowds, when Harold Zidler was a bit less rotund, and when a young Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec began sketching ideas for his paintings on the tablecloths.

            Belladonna was missed by few; Harold and Marie Zidler, who loved and remembered all of the girls they employed, and a very young and sprightly girl who became known as Nini Legs-In-The-Air, who held Belladonna and Mome Fromage as her two best friends in the whole world.

            Belladonna was sitting around chatting with the girls during rehearsal, just as she did every other day.  A woman with an Irish accent came in carrying a shawl, and asked for Belladonna.  Marie Zidler directed the woman across the dance floor to where Belladonna was sitting in a chair.

            _"Belle?" the woman asked._

_            "Yes," Belladonna said, hardly glancing up._

_            The woman smiled evilly and pulled a revolver from her shawl.  She fired two shots into Belladonna's chest._

_            "Call that blood money," the woman said, and then rushed out the doors as Marie and the girls rushed to Belladonna's side._ 

The woman was a moneylender from England, who took out Belladonna's ten years worth of unpaid debts, numbering in the thousands, with a single shot.  Some years later, she was committed to an insane asylum for committing three more such "debt-murders" in London.

            Belladonna's death was the first in the Moulin Rouge, and none quite so shocking happened afterward.  The day she died, Marie Zidler began to look older, and Nini, who cried and carried on and had to be dragged away from Belladonna's side by Chocolat, became bitterer, and vowed never to become too attached to anyone ever again.

            Belladonna's death, however tragic, happened with scarcely a notice in the Parisian underworld district of Montemarte.  But her death was a turning point; a blessing in disguise for those who fell in with the Moulin Rouge and her people.

            For you see, Belladonna left behind an eleven-year-old daughter.

            _"Emily," Harold said to the young girl perched on the bed.  "Your mother is dead."_

_            "Dead?" Emily asked, her voice cracking.  "No…"_

_            "Yes, chickpea, I'm afraid so," Harold replied sadly._

_            The tears ran silently down Emily's eyes._

_            "She was murdered.  Shot.  By a money lender from England," Harold explained softly._

_            "Old Mrs. O'Hanalan," Emily murmured through her tears.  She slid off the bed and made her way to the window, where sunlight poured in through the dusty glass, illuminating the girl's frizzy red curls and giving them the appearance of a disheveled halo._

_            "Have you any other relatives?" Harold asked._

_            "No.  They're all dead too," Emily replied._

_            "Madame Zidler and I have arranged for you to stay with us," Harold explained.  He circled slowly around the foot of the bed until he was next to the girl.  He placed his hand gently on her small shoulder._

_            "For how long?" Emily inquired warily.  She feared the orphanage.  She had heard too many dark tales of orphanages._

_            Harold smiled slightly.  "Permanently."_

_            So Emily packed what few belongings she and her mother had owned into a trunk, and Chocolat, who had been waiting at the foot of the stairs, helped Harold carry the bulky cart back to the Moulin Rouge._

_            As Emily turned and gave a last glance at the small room in which she and her mother had lived for the past few years, another small tear streamed silently down her cheek.  Harold turned and watched the girl say an unspoken goodbye to her past, and perhaps to her childhood._

_            And then, in a voice as beautiful and clear as a silver bell, Emily sang out…_

Today's the day… 

_            …and Harold joined her, Emily turning back and their eyes meeting…_

_…when dreaming ends._

            So with a little persuasion and a large sum of money, the Zidlers adopted Emily.

            _"What is your full name, child?" asked the official who had come to take care of the matter, his pen poised over the adoption form._

_            "Emily Satine Magruder," Emily replied solemnly._

_            "Birthplace?"_

_            "Brisbane, England."_

_            "Date of birth?"_

_            "November 21st, 1874."_

_            "Birth mother's full name?"_

_            "Belle Elizabeth Nesbeth Magruder."_

_            "And your father's full name?"_

_            "Thomas LaVere Wallace Magruder, the fourth."_

_            "Both parents deceased?"_

_            "Yes."_

_            "Any living relatives?  Grandparents?  Aunts?  Uncles?  Cousins?  Anyone?"_

_            "None, sir," Emily replied in her most dignified manner._

            "Very well," the official said.  "Monsieur Zidler, if you will sign here.  And Madame Zidler, you as well…"

            During a rehearsal one afternoon, Emily sat at Nini's mirrored vanity table in the dressing room, gingerly applying makeup to her pale complexion.

"Emily?" Marie called out.

            "Yes, Marie?" Emily called out.

            Marie stuck her head around the doorframe.  "Oh, Emily, there you are.  I was wondering where you were."

            "I've just been playing in here," Emily replied with a smile.  "Don't worry, I didn't mess with the costume rack."

            "That's good," Marie replied.  "Did you ask Nini before using her dressing table?"

            "Yes," Emily replied.  "She said I may, but she said not to use up all her makeup or make a mess."  Emily paused for a moment, then turned from the mirror and looked at Marie thoughtfully.  "How old's Nini?"

            "Why, let me think," Marie replied, absently fiddling with her apron tie.  "I believe Nini's seventeen years old."

            "She's young," Emily replied.  "That means she's only six years older than I am."

            "Yes, I suppose that's right," Marie said, moving to sit down beside Emily on a nearby chair.

            "Who's that funny little short man that comes here all the time and draws on the tablecloths?" Emily asked, "And drinks too much of that green stuff."

            "That's Toulouse," Marie replied.  "Yes, he's a little too generous with his absinthe.  But he's a very nice fellow; very creative.  He's a painter, and he's done some of the posters for us."

            "You mean the ones with Jane Avril and Chocolat on them?"  Emily asked excitedly.  "I've seen those!  Madame Jolie, our landlady, kept one of them on the back of the door to her office."

            Emily sighed and turned back to the mirror.  "I wish I looked like one of the girls here.  They're all so pretty."

            "You're pretty too," Marie reassured her.

            "Well, I guess, in a way.  But my hair's the real problem," Emily said, grabbing a handful of curls and examining them.  "It's too frizzy and fluffy."

            "Oh, that's easy to fix," Marie said cheerfully.  She rose to her feet and stood behind Emily, running her hands over the girl's coppery-red hair.  "I know a way to make it soft and shiny."

            "You do?"

            "Of course.  But it's kind of messy, and it'll take some effort," Marie said.

            "Messy?  How so?"

            "Well, you have to put this mixture on it.  I have the recipe; it has raw eggs in it," Marie said, looking at Emily in the mirror with an eyebrow raised.

            "Geechh!" Emily uttered, sticking her tongue out and giggling.  She paused and looked into the mirror.  "Well, I guess it won't hurt to try."

            "Well, I can mix some up tonight," said Marie.  "But first, you'll have to brush it a great deal."

            "Will you brush it for me, Marie?" Emily asked, looking upside down at Marie.

            Marie smiled.  "Sure," she said.  She reached over and pulled open a drawer of the table, shuffling through a large assortment of brushes, combs, and hairpins.

            "My goodness," Marie exclaimed, "Nini's got quite a collection.  I'm sure she won't mind if we use just one of these."  Marie produced a large paddle brush and began to gingerly comb through Emily's hair, maneuvering through the thick jungle of somewhat tangled curls.

            "You know, Marie," Emily said after awhile.  "I want to be an actress someday."

            "Do you?" Marie asked.

            "Oh yes.  I want to be in plays and go on tour and have people wanting pictures of me to hang in their houses," Emily said.  "Like Sarah Bernhardt."

            "Sarah Bernhardt, eh?" Marie replied.  "Well, you better get to practicing.  She's pretty good."

            "Oh, I know.  Before we left England, when I was about five years old, Mother and Father took me to see one of her plays.  She was just wonderful," Emily mused.  Suddenly, her expression of wonder turned to one of sadness.

            Marie ceased brushing and gazed thoughtfully at the girl in the mirror.

            "You miss your mother?" Marie asked.

            "Yes," Emily replied.  "But she's in a better place now.  Not having to pay bills and borrow money anymore."  Emily looked up at Marie.  "My father was rich, but my mother came from a middle class family.  My father's parents didn't want my father to marry my mother.  So after he died in the shipwreck, they turned me and my mother out.  Well, they turned my mother out, but they wanted to keep me, but Mother wouldn't let them."

            Marie smiled sadly at the girl.  "Your mother loved you very much," she said.  "She talked about you all the time."

            "Yes," Emily said, and then became quiet again, and Marie continued to brush her hair.

            After a moment, Emily spoke up again.  "You know, father was the one who named me Emily; after his grandmother.  But Mother was the one who gave me my middle name.  Satine."

            "They're both very pretty names," Marie said.

            "I've decided that if I ever become famous, I'm going to use my middle name.  Just the one name, like the girls here," Emily explained.

            "I think that's a wonderful idea…Mademoiselle Satine," Marie addressed her, smiling and bowing slightly.

            "Merci, Madame Zidler," Emily replied with a respectful nod.  The two laughed together at their playful formalities.

            Later that night, after Marie tucked the small redheaded girl into bed, Emily Satine stared out her window.  Marie and Harold, in their room across the hall, heard the little girl's voice singing through the darkness;

            The stairways up to 'La Butte' can make the wretched sigh

            While windmill wings of the Moulin shelter you and I

THE END

A/N: Hey, that was fun.  This is my first Moulin Rouge fic, and I hope all you out there in Reader Land like it.  I could have done a lot of detailing and stuff, but I wanted to keep it simple.  However, I may do a companion piece to it in the future.  Who knows? 

If any of you are curious as to where I came up with this fic…heh, funny thing, I actually DREAMED the whole thing.  Well, the basic concept, and details like names and stuff I added as writing commenced.  This is my 2nd story idea EVER to have dreamed (the other is a book idea of mine I'm developing…which, there's no telling if it'll ever happen.)  The story title and the lines Satine sings the end came from a line in "Complainte de la Butte" by Rufus Wainwright, which is Track 13 on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack and plays in the background in the beginning scene where Christian steps off the train…the one w/ the lil' piano diddy and the French lyrics.  The song's half in French, half in English, so I did the best I could in putting what I think I heard onto the page.  Anyhoolze, please R/R and tell me what you think! :)

BETA-READ BY JESSICA FAIRBAIRN & REVISED BY THE AUTHOR MAY 2004.


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